


Sonata

by OneEightSix



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, spideypool - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneEightSix/pseuds/OneEightSix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When given a choice, we have to deal with the consequences from our actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Second Chance

 

 

_“Just as there are two sides to every story,_

_There are two sides to a person._

_One that we reveal to the world,_

_And another we keep hidden inside.—“_

 

 

 

  **T** he Second Chance

  
**  
** _Sonata_   


 

 

 

 

It was cold.

Just like everything before.

 

The only warmth he got was from his palms. His breaths were hanging in the air with a small fog with each take. The air was brisk against his glazed eyes, causing them to sting inadvertently. His fingers shook on the edge of the metal casing, the kick back having stung his fingers and launched a dull ache through his wrist. Red was circling across white, the mixture of heat to sudden cooling having the splurges an odd shape. It would have looked like he was sleeping, if not for the trail of smoke and the light smell of gunpowder in the air.

 

He stood, in stilled silence with the cold specks of white falling from the sky and settling in his hair, on his face, and over the barrel that was still piping with dulling heat.

 

Silence was a horrible sound to bear, resulting in not even the blaring sound of distant horns to follow through the city. Instead, it felt like Peter was alone with his act; his hands twitched and released the gun from his fingers, letting it land with a light thud and indent it’s pattern onto the snow. Next, came his knees. He dropped forwards, palms pressing into the thick layers of fluffy ice under his fingers. He felt a rising storm of bile to creep upwards, but it never came, he just made choked sounds, coughs; his body lurching with a sense of… Completion, hatred, anger and even… Bliss. The confusion settled into a stunned reprimand of his actions not only 3 minutes before.

 

He could hear footsteps following him, warm fingertips pressing on his shoulders that he didn’t quite register yet.

“Come on, Pete. You did it.”

The voice was soft, oddly for him. He settled up with a swallow, his breaths hanging heavy in the air as if the whole atmosphere was popping around him to keep his legs pinned to the floor. He felt the others hands move under his arm in a gentle tug upwards. Surprisingly, his body followed; allowing his shaking legs to push himself upwards. He stumbled, but the careful hands on him supported his balance. Gentle. All the fingers against him were.

 

“He’s…I…” The words fell from Peter’s mouth. Shaken and tired. As if he hadn’t slept for years.

“Yeah Pete, he’s dead.”

 

His eyes finally turned from the body settled within the snow, eyes half closed with a sparkling twinkle to them from under the hoods. A blank stare focused on nothing in particular, and tufts of blond hair nestled now behind a small, damp layer of snow.

Peter knew the courses of his actions, even if it had stunned him if only for a few moments in time. He’d killed that man. He shot him, even as he begged for his life. Begged for Peter to forgive him.

 

_“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”_

 

The words echoed on deaf ears in that point of time, anger twisting across his face and a merciless pull on the trigger. It sounded like a thunderclap, and it was over. No more sounds, no more begging or apologizing. It was over.

 

Peter’s fingers tensed when the other tried to pull at him, eyes now moving from his kill to the man who supplied the weapon and the choice. Forever clad in red and black, the taller, more usually loud mercenary had been oddly gentle and observant throughout the ordeal. Like sympathy had welled up forever in this one night for him to give it to Peter.

 

“You let me kill him,” Peter remarked carefully. “You let me do it.”

“You wanted to,” he responded back with, voice still beautifully gentle. “You wanted this to end.”

 

Deadpool, as he went by, moved forwards with a hesitant step; hands still supporting the boy's arm as he scooped the weapon from the snowy fall below. Tucking the favored pistol into his holster, he scuffed his feet on the tracks they’d left up until this point.

 

“Come on,” he whispered. “We gotta get out of here.”

 

For a moment, Peter just turned his gaze back to the body left behind. A gunshot wound through the chest, perhaps it hit the heart specifically, or maybe something else. He fell pretty quickly, and unlike the movies, there weren’t any gurgling noises or last breaths. It was just one shot and it was over. The blood that could pool around him, melted a couple of caked layers of snow beneath him, but it was fading fast as fresh snow began to cover up his sin in a sheet of icy white.  Peter’s footsteps were slow, at first. Resulting in him following Wade as he tugged the other to get somewhere warm, to digest what had happened.

 

“I killed him, Wade.” Peter whispered, not tearing his eyes from the body. “I killed him—“

“The guy deserved it,” came the ever voice of reason. “People like that don’t change. Trust me.”

 

It was strange. Usually, there would have been a joke somewhere in there. But it was like Wade shared the anger Peter had harbored for so long; finding a release of anger and hate left behind with him.

 

“I didn’t give him a chance—“ Peter began. The reasoning behind his kill now being flushed with regret. Brows perked up, footsteps getting slower as he realized… He’d killed someone for a selfish reason. He took someone’s life away in the name of revenge. Even after all he preached, after all he’d been through; he still did what he thought he never would do.

 

He killed the man who killed his uncle in cold blood.

 

“Peter.” Wade stopped now, turning and grasping his palms on either of the others arms. He stared, despite his pupils being hidden behind white and black, Peter knew he was looking so hard into his skull, he could almost feel the ache of it.

 

“He didn’t deserve the second chance.”


	2. Idle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aftermath.

Idle 

_Sonata_

 

That gut feeling Wade knew all too well; the aftermath of a decision you’d come to regret. His eyes scanned the boy as he held the heated coffee mug in his hands, chipped edges with a few scuffs around the base. Curiosity from Wade’s own cupboard, and it was clean! Peter should be impressed.

 

But he wasn’t.

 

He just sat there, staring into the mixture and saying nothing. When Wade had guided the lost soul into his apartment and sat him down, Peter hadn’t moved. He’d just stared absently, lost in his own head of thoughts. Wade couldn’t begin to understand what was stirring inside of him, and he hadn’t opened his mouth to yet, in fear of cracking a dumb joke and making Peter flip out.

 

Because it would happen if the words weren’t right, if they just… Weren’t connecting with him.

 

“Pete?” He chanced, twiddling his thumbs from the other side of the sofa. “You gotta say something, buddy.”

 

 

There was nothing for a while. Peter didn’t move, apart from the very minute movements of his thumb stroking the edges of the cup itself. He hadn’t even touched the liquid inside, he just held what was given to him, stare trance like and watching nothing in particular. It scared Wade; after all, Peter was usually so… Well, funny -- Adorable or just plain childish. But now, he was blank.

 

And then it came; a small intake of shaken breath and the words fell out.

“I should turn myself in.”

 

Wade would have laughed, if he knew Peter wasn’t serious. His lips parted underneath the mask, his eyes looking at the lost boy as he stroked the rim of the cup over and over; like he was winding up a toy to go.

 

“I killed someone—“

“The guy killed more than just your uncle, Pete. I’m sure of it.” Wade tried; consoling him was the only option now. The mercenary, in all his heart, believed that Peter deserved that kill. A step outside the forever-heavy weight of good; and to just let him seep all his corruption to shooting the man who changed his life forever, by taking something precious from him.

 

That’s why Wade tracked that sucker down, and offered the choice to Peter. He was surprised when he took it, shot so suddenly and it was over. Peter had done what Wade thought highly unlikely. But he hoped this would be a release. A way for Peter to move on, avenge his Uncle and put it as a cornerstone of his past. The day he crawled out of the abyss of lost causes and into burying that ghost that had haunted him for so long. 

 

But now Peter only looked hollow.

 

“No one deserves to die, Wade.” He kept his stare at the same distant point, but his finger was wiping the cup quicker. He was getting worked up and Wade could see it. “He asked me, he _asked_ me to stop and I didn’t. I was so angry that I just—“

 

Clad fingertips pressed against Peter’s knuckles with a slow squeeze following them; just a small touch to stop his thumb from winding up that invisible cog in his hands. He pushed the cup to the coffee table, and took Peter’s hands in his own.

 

The boy’s eyes turned slowly to the other, and then to their hands, where Wade was absently brushing his fingers against the others. Sizing his palm against his own; and smiling distantly under his mask.

 

“You’re allowed to be angry,” he finally said. “You’re allowed to hate, Pete. You’re allowed to go crazy and blow your top. You’re allowed to hurt people who have hurt you. You’ve got a heart of gold, but… You’re only human.” He held their hands up, his fingers slightly curling over Peter’s lovingly. “You know I’ll still be head over heels for you, no matter how scary you get. Because you’ve done the same for me.”

 

Peter’s heart fluttered in his chest, and the first look of emotion crossed his face since getting into the apartment. His eyes glazed over, his expression twisting—

 

And he cried.

 

He fell against the others chest, and Wade tensed at it. He didn’t know what to do. Not once, had Peter come to him crying as he did now. So he just… Reached his hand up to the others back and stroked along it gently. Peter was hiccupping and making sounds that wounded Wade where he thought he couldn’t be.

 

He began to feel resentment to himself, for making Peter feel this bad about getting what he deserved. But he held it back in a thick swallow, and just let the Spider spill it out. All Wade could do, was trying and hold him together, he supposed.

 

 

 

Peter fell asleep not long after.

 

He was still breathing in shaken formations long after he’d stopped weeping, and exhausted himself. Wade leaned back into his gritty sofa, and brought the boy close to him, cradling him as he delved somewhere where Wade couldn’t follow. He could only be here when he awoke.

 

_Well done, genius. Now he’s gonna hate us._

**Of course he won’t. Remember our first kill—**

_But we’re insane! We didn’t count!_

**We weren’t insane before then! We weren’t even a we!**

**Our kill still held some regret and bad tastes!**

_I don’t wanna talk about it!_

Wade had to shake his head to silence to ever-frivolous voices that swamped his head. Here, he tried to be serious for five minutes and they had to show up. He wasn’t even going to entertain talking to them. Instead, he just wrapped his arms ever tighter against the limp bug-boy and would wait for him to wake up as patiently as he possibly could be.

 

 

 

**There’s nothing to worry about. He’s a kid. He’ll bounce back.**

_He wasn’t a killer though. We turned him into one!_

**He was judge, jury and executioner for that man. The guy was a dick and deserved it.**

_Oh contraire, my beautiful other self. But what if he doesn’t bounce back?_

**We’ll cover him in rubber.**

_Or elastic bands!_

 

This time, the merc brought his hand to his head and gave it a forced palm into the side to boggle his insides to get them to shut up. Because what they discussed actually did bother Wade some what. What if he didn’t bounce back? What if Peter went insane or committed himself? Trialed himself? It would ruin his life surely – He wouldn’t be the bright, enthusiastic boy he’d met not long ago. He’d be a husk.

 

No, that wasn’t fair.

 

Peter just had to digest it, was all? Had to come to terms that now there was no going back, there was no redemption to be had considering the man who was probably layered in thick white snow, would be worthy of having his own executioner sentenced.

 

The kid would be fine.

 

… Wouldn’t he?


	3. Soulless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to say goodbye.

 

Soulless 

_Sonata_

 

 

Peter wasn't sure how long he'd slept; he couldn't remember where in his excessive babbling had stopped and he'd drifted -- But when his eyes peered open, he found himself staring into the slow rise and fall of Wade's chest. He could hear the irregular heartbeat drumming somewhere deep within, fluttering like a trapped bird. A few blinks followed as he slipped out the shell of sleep, and was back to reality in one heavy sweep. His eyes dropped, finding his hands lifting from within the tangles of his and Wade's arms for just a glance of them.

 

Not a trace of blood was there -- No sign of his corruption of rage. It was clean, he was clean all over. 

 

But if he focused his eyes enough, if he just... Looked hard enough, he could see it. He could see that his hands were red with someone else's blood, that this ghost would haunt him forever. Peter had given in to his darkest desires and become what he resented to be. He'd become the man who shot his uncle. 

 

He wanted to move at this point, but he couldn't find the strength to. Was it still dark outside? Light? He didn't know. He didn't know the time, all he knew is that he was wrapped up close to a sleeping Deadpool who slept soundly like nothing happened. 

 

_"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"_

 

He found himself welling up again, dread filling his system as he let himself struggle to sit up. His head was dull and a distant echo of tension was residing somewhere deep in his skull. It was off-balancing, like he wasn't rooted to the ground by gravity anymore. He was going to do it. Turn himself in, pay for his crimes and live forever with this bitter taste in his mouth.

 

With his legs swinging over to the side, he felt the familiar tug around his waist, drawing him in close to a usually comforting  warmth with a head dropped into the corner of his neck and shoulder. 

"Where are you going?" 

The voice was as soft as it was last night, the tightness of his arms around the smaller boy was something that was holding him back from fighting him. Peter honestly couldn't find the strength in him to shrug the mercenary off to carry out his plan. His body was so weak and zapped, it felt like he had no soul left in him. He couldn't find the strength to word his actions, about going to the police, unmasking himself and explaining every detail of what happened that night. How his murder begged, grovelled, pleaded for mercy and there was none to be found in that moment.

How quickly he hit the floor and how silence rained out so loudly in his ears. The world was becoming blurred and smudgy and he could feel that he was threatening to pour out all over again. His hand lifted, slapping against his forehead as his lips opened and his teeth clenched together. 

 

"This is it. This is the end," Peter said in a shaken, quiet breath. "I'm not fit to do this anymore. I can't do this." He could feel it rising in him again; the feeling of nausea that he couldn't quite place. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to even exist right now. The guilt was so heavy on his shoulders that he was crushed underneath it.

There was no will left in him, and Wade could hear it in his voice.

The mercenary gently tugged at him, drew him closer and lifted his head to rest his masked lips close to his ear. He needed to say the right thing, and Wade was never good at that.

"It is the end," Wade replied with shortly; Gentle words like soft whispers in his ears. It would have been soothing, beautifully soothing if it weren't for his panic rising all over again. "That part of your life is over. It's gone. You don't have to think about 'what if's' anymore, Baby boy. You can close that chapter now."

 

Wade had hoped Peter was listening to him - and he could hear him, but it just wasn't enough. His fingers began to tense in the tufts of his hair and his breathing was getting heavier. The guilt was falling through and shattering Peter to pieces and Wade couldn't hold him together.

"Let go of me," 

"I can't." 

It came out too quickly as Wade felt the panic follow through him too. It was burning like wildfire that he'd actually done this to him. That he had crushed Peter under the weight of his own morals and sense of revenge. But he wouldn't let go, he wouldn't let him do this to himself; so he squeezed him tighter which sparked some sort of fighting sense into the boy. His hand moved to the others arm and he squeezed, it was tight, and it hurt Wade, but he refused. 

With the strength of a bull, he felt Peter's hand threaten to tear his arm right out of his socket - But he still didn't give up. He just clung to him as this strength surged through Peter and left as quickly as it came. The deflated Spider dropped against him all over again and both hands dragged to his face. 

 

This kid was no liar, killer or a monster. This was a kid who was given too much power when he wasn't ready for it.

 

"I'm sorry baby boy," he muttered gently. "If it makes you feel better, I really killed him. I gave you the gun, I loaded it, and I pointed you to him. This was all me. And I'm not being some fine jail booty to turn myself in for it." He couldn't help but ramble the jokes. He was trying to be serious but could only fall out words in mumbles and halfhearted laughs. "Stop crying, stop blaming yourself, huh?"

What else could he say?

With that, he thought Peter was lax in his arms and he let his guard down - However as soon as his tension dropped, Peter moved with the agility of a cat and bounced forwards. Before Wade could even shout his name, lurch his arm forward, he was gone. With one bounce he was out the window and gone.

 

_We so need to tag him._

 

**If I was a horrible depressed Spider-Man with crushing morals, where would I go?**

 

_Duh, he said he was going to turn himself in._

 

**He would, but...**

 

"Not before saying goodbye to people first."

That meant his family, maybe his friends. Peter would go to different people for different tortures in his life. For inner turmoils, it was usually his aunt. The kid wasn't thinking straight, so that's where he would be.

 

Home. 


	4. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And from the ashes...

 

Rebirth

 

_Sonata_

 

 

It was amazing how everything stung. The blurred world was like a cascading imagery forced through a breaking film reel as Peter found himself swinging clumsily across the city. It was light outside, breaking daylight swarming from heavy clouds of thick white; threatening more snow in the forecast. The cold just clung to his tears, threatening to freeze them on his cheeks, but it didn't matter. He couldn't think straight anymore.

 

His mask wasn't present, but thanks to the foggy city and blizzard spit falls here and there, Spider-Man was just a blur of red and blue as he bashed off buildings, fell on rooftops and slipped across pipes. The reckless nature and desperation were evident as he tried to marry his thoughts from a jumbled scribble to an objective, but it just wasn't happening.

 

He needed to see Aunt May; he needed to tell her, apologise until his throat was sore and words wouldn't wheeze out of him anymore. He'd turn himself in, J.J was going to have a field day with this back at the Bugle, Spider-Man the monster he was always painted out to be. 

 

With that thought, his footing landed wrong on a frozen edge; his foot shifted awkwardly and he fell; it was a good 6 or 7 stories when gravity thumped him so hard, he almost coughed out a lung. But instead... the snow had cushioned most of it, and thanks to his powers he lived; If not for the constant ache in his back and shoulders. He was lucky he didn't land on his head, or worse.

It took a good few minutes for him to drag his battered, exhausted and drained body up, sitting uncomfortably against a brick wall of a back alley; nothing great about it. Any dirt or garbage had already been caked with snow leaving an uneven trail and a few dabbles of drips here and there. Peter found himself breathing shakily, the pain was at the back of his mind now. The only thing that mattered anymore was result. The incarnation of his own crush spirits by doing the only right thing he can.  

 

"What the fuck was that!?" Peter was groggy, his head was spinning and the world was still blurred. He could hardly see the figure before him, a black pair of pants on a project of a white landscape maybe... But the voice was distant. "Is that Spider-Man?"

 

He felt hands grip his hair, dragging it backwards for this mystery figure to get a look at his face. He stunk of grime and dark - Peter couldn't see him directly, but he knew this guy was trouble, the aura just fell off of him.

"This is just a kid--" Who was he talking to? Was someone there? "Is that bounty from Fisk still on him? Because this might just be our lucky day..."

 

Peter felt the cold sting of metal just under his jaw, his head was blaring alarms as the tingle of his senses shouted with danger. But his body wouldn't move, he couldn't find himself to defend; isn't this what he deserved? Probably. 

 

"Come on, kid. Where's the smart mouth? You drop outta the sky-- Hey... You crying, kid?" With a few blinks, the world was coming to. The sky was white and the floor was, if it wasn't for the dingy grey of buildings and the dull figures of New York wandering around like ghosts, he would have thought he was floating in a see of blank. His eyes finally settled upon a face; one with a long ginger beard, yellowing teeth and a wool hat covering the branches of his receding head. This guy was old, homeless and desperate.

 

It was freezing out here.

 

"Funny, after all that lip you gave to everyone too, and now you're sniveling here." He felt the hands pull away, his eyes lazily watching the ginger man retreat and hold the gun up to his head. He was an arms length away, and his head was deafening him with warnings. "Oh well. Since you ain't talkin'... Goodbye, kid. You'll make me a rich man."

 

The sound rung out like a thunder clap. The gun was old and wet, the gunpowder barely issuing a bullet but it did. Time slowed for Peter, he could see his finger move and there was no hesitation. This was it. He was going to die. A bullet for a bullet - It was poetic and he didn't mind that...

 

...Or...

 

Peter breathed as if it was his first time, gulping in air as if waking shocked and alert from a nightmare. His heart raced a mile a minute with his head tilting at the last second to dodge the bullet. The indentation on the wall was enough to clarify that the man would have reached it's mark if he hadn't moved just.

Peter's eyes darted across the side, to him, and to whoever was standing out in the shadows behind him. It took a few seconds that felt like hours for them all to digest the situation and to start reacting to it. Peter saw too quickly; the man was aiming again, ready to fire off the rest of his clip in a fool hardy effort to catch him. His body moved before he could think, launching himself from his sullied position to grab the ginger man's wrist. With one quick snap, his wrist bent all the way back to his arm and screams blurted out like warnings to the others. 

His body shifted, turning to the other in the shadows who began to kick snow in a trail of his sprint away, but Peter was too fast. He bent low and jumped forwards onto him like a bird of prey and shattered the man's skull against the floor. The sound of the sickening crack was heard over the others screaming, but all that did was remind him that his would-be-killer was still alive. His reactions were animistic and impulse, forcing himself forwards to look over the frightened, foaming man as he kicked, shuddered and tried to crawl away from the possessed force of the teenager.

 

The Spider slowly stood over him, lowered and looked at the ginger spluttering, cradling his far gone wrist and terror ringing out on his eyes. Peter's expression was actually indifferent, he looked neither happy nor sad about all of this. Finally, after a long time of crying, moping and giving up, he spoke quietly, softly.

  
"... I think I know why... People like you kill over and over again. You know... One day you're going to get out. You're going to be free again." He could hear the slow begging of the man, who could just barely hold onto consciousness from the pain rattling through him. "I think I was naive to give people a second chance when they didn't deserve it. A person who kills another for money, deserves to die for vengeance... Wouldn't you say?"

 

" _No-- No please...I'm sorry--!_ "

 

"You were going to slaughter me, here. I was at my lowest point and all you could think about was money--"

 

_"No--No I'm---"_

 

"...I think I've had enough. I've had enough letting old enemies crawl over me, fight me time after time because they know I won't kill them."

 

_"I won't, I won't-- Please--_ "

 

"...I don't know. This world is cruel, and a man who kills in a city is a murderer... But when a soldier kills someone, he's a hero. What if a super hero started killing murderers? What would that be?"

 

_"No--No!"_

 

Peter had to stop his thoughts. He had to think -- This wasn't him. Whatever spurred just a few moments before wasn't himself. He let his expression shift to grief, his hands moving to grab at his face and brush away the cold trails of his tears. He had to regain something, some part of him. 

Breathe.

His eyes opened from behind his fingers, looking at the squabbling man beneath him who was still muttering for his life.

 

...What to do now?


End file.
